


A week without rain

by TotemundTabu



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fruk - OnlyPast!USUK, Human AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 18:33:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TotemundTabu/pseuds/TotemundTabu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The French man looked at him with the corners of the eyes, silently, almost shyly.<br/>Arthur didn’t notice it and Francis was thankful, being afraid, after all that time, Arthur would have recognized in his eyes that same look, of so many years ago, in the fields of rye, under the scorching summer sun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A week without rain

_**A week without rain**_  
  
"I have to stop loving you.", Arthur mumbled, on the balcony.  
He was speaking in a low voice, still not able to put up with the consequences of what he knew being the Truth and his duty.  
He was standing there, the arms crossed on the irony railing, the cigarette half-smoked pending from his mouth, and the summer sultriness attached to his skin, like a bad dream. It was going to rain, maybe, he couldn’t tell for sure; the foliages were shivering slowly and the sky was a heavy grey, but those signs were not enough.  
The baggy shirt left one of his shoulders bare, leaning lazily, too big for him.  
Arthur scratched the back of his neck and breathed in the stale, tired air of the day.  
"I need to stop loving you.", he repeated again.  
Arthur finished his cigarette, threw it from the balcony, watching its little corpse falling on the ground, then returned inside. Francis was already in the kitchen, pouring hot coffee in two mugs.  
"Good morning, ray of sunshine.", he said, with a mocking smirk, teasing him.  
Arthur had the worst bed head since years and his eye sockets were so big he could have used them as bags.  
"Fuck off, Fran."   
The French man ignored the curse and, simply, handed Arthur’s his mug. Yes, Arthur had his mug in Francis’ house. It was a flashy cerulean blue and lilac mug with a Lady Amalthea printed on it, it was probably the less manly thing on earth but neither of them cared, even if Francis kept dear and close his prerogative to tease his friend about his attachment to childhood.  
"How do you feel now?"  
Arthur faked the creepiest joker smile he could.  
Francis mumbled, “Mh, yeah, more or less like yesterday.”  
"The fairy of sudden good mood didn’t visit me overnight."  
"On the other hand, the fairy of grumpiness must live up your butt."  
"Well, it’s not like anybody else has been there lately…"  
"A new thing to add in my list of things I would have liked to never know."  
Arthur sipped his coffee, then puffed, “Cereals?”  
"You still didn’t sober up completely and I’d rather avoid the third round of vomit cleaning for today, sweetheart."  
"Since when you are my mother? - he raised an eyebrow - Give me some cereals."  
Francis rolled his eyes to the ceiling, then picked a bowl, some cereals and cold milk from the fridge and declared, dramatically, “Here, eat your feelings.”  
"Ew, what’s this thing. - he frowned - Can’t I have honey feelings?"  
"No, you will have Almond and Berries feelings, since this house is not an emotional eating supermarket."  
Arthur shrugged his shoulders and gave up.  
Crunching, he thought about Alfred, about how his breakfast was bacon and scrambled eggs, while Milk and cereals was more like a 2AM treat, he remembered his ridicolously overlysweet chocolate and marshmallow cereals and how he made of it a sort of religion, having as first commandament that milk comes after and everyone who poured milk first would have been a potential serial killer due to his clear lack of respect for the meaning of life. He used to eat two bowls each time: one directly leaning on the fridge and one in front of the TV, watching some rerun of Desperate Housewives.  
He liked Susan.  
How can someone even bear Susan? That was what Arthur always wondered.  
Arthur sighed heavily.  
He should have stopped to love him.  
Francis frowned, looking outside the window “It looks like it’s going to rain but it never does…”  
"Maybe it’s waiting for the right moment.", the Londoner replied, mumbling.  
"Oh, I’m going to respect weather’s life choices from now on, but it’d be really nice if it rained before I melt into an ungraceful puddle."  
"You are a disgrace to human race anyway, maybe puddles will accept you."  
"Your eyebrows are a disgrace to decency but, yeah, let’s ignore the beam of wood, specks are such an annoyance."  
Francis bit a peach, a crunchy one. The sweet scent and the little noise of the teeth reminded Arthur of the summers they spent together, as children, eating peaches and cherries in the country - before Paris, before Drama School, before Alfred, before everything that seemed so big and imposing then. Arthur wondered what would have happened, to those childrean eating peaches under the sun, if they took a different road, if didn’t meet some people.  
"Do you remember… - Francis started - …that time we stole peaches from my neighbor’s trees, and we went to the river to wash them and you said you saw a deer?"  
"I did! It was there. You are the blind one who couldn’t see it."  
"I never said you lied."  
"It’s writen all over your face you never believed me."  
"I do believe you saw it; whether I believe if a deer was there: this is another thing and ranther unimportant."  
"I’ll never get you. - Arthur groaned - Why do I still talk with you?"  
Francis chuckled then, biting again his peach, he replied, “One day, darling, you’ll see you have to choose your friends with the same care you show in picking cereals.”  
  


* * *

  
  
The day after, it didn’t rain yet.  
The moist air made their skin sticky, even if they didn’t do anything in particular. Arthur was sitted on the sofa, in the corner, holding a freezing pillow, with an icy beer bottle near him - at least, it was icy five minutes before - while Francis was already in an almost crucifixed position, like he completely gave up life, his head facing the ceiling fan not working enough.  
"I want to die.", he whispered.  
"I am too tired to fullfill this request. Wait until sunset."  
Francis turned the television ON, zapping between programms like hoping to find something worth-watching in the emptiness of August show schedule.  
"There is Third Watch…"  
"I swear to god, if you try to watch that thing I will fuck you with the remote."  
"It could be interesting.", observed, too bored to be serious.  
Arthur sighed, annoyed. He remained silent for a moment, reflecting without thinking, just letting thoughts and images floating in his head, like it were an empty corridor.  
"Francis-"  
"Mh?"  
"What if we…?"  
The French didn’t even stopped zapping, he simply and dryly replied, “No.”  
Arthur, at first, nodded, holding the pillow. He kept thinking about Alfred, his dark blond hair and his loud voice, the way he was greedy and fast, about food just like about sex, the way everything was his and his alone and never “ours”, the way he was able to make a tragedy out of nothing and ignore the biggest problems by just saying it wasn’t his business.  
Then why did he still miss him?  
Why wasn’t he happy they broke up?  
His eyes observed Francis, then. His slim, long neck, graceful, with a sharp Adam’s Apple, was beautiful, just like his broad, big shoulders and the way the collarbones drew on his skin. The hair were tied up in a little pony tail, but some gold curls escaped from the bow, in a low, tired honey-coloured waterfall.  
Arthur felt embittered. Arthur felt angry.  
A drop of sweat run down the soft hill of Francis’ nape.  
"Why not?", Arthur bursted out.  
"Because I’m too expensive for you. - he joked, keeping his voice monotone, then commented, seriously - Because you’d regret it the second after. Also, it’d be really weird."  
"Why weird?"  
"You are weird."  
"I am not weird!"  
"You are really weird. - Francis smiled - Also, you are not the One Night Stand type."  
"It’d be just a fuck, no need to give him so many meanings or thought.", Arthur protested, not convincing at all.  
Francis turned the television off and finally turned to his friend, “Arthur, you would hate yourself and tell it’s a big mistake and cry and drink and cry even more, and then you will think about Alfred again and you will feel defeated and overwhelmed and sick and you will cry again. - he summed up - One should never make sex with someone when he’s still in love with someone else, it’s just another way to feel you belong to the ex. It’s evident. Even a complete idiot could see it.”  
It made sense and it was true.  
But it was not only that.  
Truth being, Arthur was aroused. And not randomly aroused, not angryly aroused because of Alfred, not sadly aroused because break-up, no.   
He was aroused by Francis.  
And it was awkward and felt a little wrong, because they were friends since childhood, because they were always bickering and quarreling and there was absolutely no scruptle between them… because he was Francis. And being aroused by Francis seemed impossible and wrong.  
But he was.  
And they were both true: that he wanted to kiss him and that he shouldn’t have wanted.  
Arthur was sure it was not just forgetting Alfred, it was not just searching for a substitute: he wanted Francis.  
But, again, why. And it was stupid.  
Arthur pointed out to himself that Francis was right: he wasn’t the One Night Stands type and it would have made their friendship maybe different and awkward. He didn’t want to ruin another equilibrium. So he shut up.  
The French man looked at him with the corners of the eyes, silently, almost shyly.  
Arthur didn’t notice it and Francis was thankful, being afraid, after all that time, Arthur would have recognized in his eyes that same look, of so many years ago, in the fields of rye, under the scorching summer sun.  
  


* * *

  
  
At the end of the week, Arthur almost forgot why Alfred and he broke up. He started to feel alone and empty.  
The rain still didn’t come.  
The stars in the night were too small and opaque, the day were all the same and the hot weather left a bitter taste in his mouth. He run away from everything, asking Francis to lend him a bed, but from the thoughts it’s not so simple to escape and so he found himself caught in a even worse situation.  
What Love is, Arthur doesn’t know. He doesn’t even really care for a definition, but he would like to be able to recocnize if a person is the one or not.  
He is tired of starting relationships and being disappointed, to feel worn out and tired of others, to feel like he failed again.   
It was always like that: he got excited about someone, he found himself interested in them, at first he denied, stubbornly, he never trusted anyone easily, but when the relationship became official, then he melted and revealed his true colours, his caring self, how much he could have give. And everyone took.  
They took it all, they took everything they could. Leaving him with the bitten leftovers of his heart and a smile to hide how humiliated he felt.  
Alfred seemed different, at first.  
Everyone seemed different, at first.  
Alfred was not a bad person, but he was childish and self-absorbed. He was the hero, he had the starring-role.  
Everyone else, somehow, were important, but never like him, never enough, and even though Arthur at first accepted, telling himself it was good and he didn’t need anything more, he found himself more and more unsatisfied with time. He didn’t complain, though, because how can someone complain about something they accepted willingly?  
The deal was signed, the roles chosen, you can’t ask for more.  
But the fights became so many and so stupid and then so bitter and so tired until they didn’t even find anymore a reason to fight and they just wanted to go away one from each other. Not only they didn’t feel anymore like they belonged to each other, but they also didn’t want the other to belong to them.  
It was the end.  
They both felt relieved when it was over.  
Arthur run to Francis without any doubt; the only other person he considered a friend was Kiku, but the poor boy was also Alfred’s best friend and you can’t ask your ex’s bestfriend moral support because you two broke up.  
Also Francis always was there for him. Always.  
Since childhood, they never left each other’s side, even in the worse of times. Even after big quarrels, they never stopped fighting and wanting to fight just to make up and being together again.  
"Hey."  
Francis blinked, “Yes?”  
"Sorry for the other day…", Arthur spoke softly, he held Francis’ back from behind.  
Francis smirked, “I’m used to avances, don’t worry.”  
"Really, go to hell", he replied, making his grasp stronger and burying his face in his friend’s scapulas.  
The French sighed, almost motherly, smiling sweetly, and repeated “It’s all fine. Don’t worry.”, then took a moment and, clearly faking an annoyed pitch lamented, “Oh c’mon, it’s too hot for hug therapy!”  
"Fran."  
"What?"  
"I’m a little tired."  
"I know…"  
"It’s the weather.", Arthur lied, holding Francis.   
Francis nodded, looking outside, where a violently sunny sky looked down on them, “Yes, definitely the weather.”  
Alfred loved sunny days.  
And summer.  
Arthur kissed Francis’ neck, salty with a little sweat but still smelling nice, like violets and tangerines. Francis shivered.  
"It’s the weather…", Arthur murmured again.  
  


* * *

  
  
Years before, in those fields of rye, eating peaches lying on the ground, with golden walls all around them and a blue sky above them, Francis and Arthur used to enjoy how slow summer flew away. The soft song of the close river, with its fresh water, and of the black birds were almost calming.  
Arthur bit another peach, letting the juice stain his lips and his neck. Francis was more prudent, he was way more careful about clothes, he wore some jeans shorts, hidden by a white tanktop, so large and big for him that it seemed like a dress. His hair were already long and he used to tell Arthur a lot of stories and fairytales, he actually invented them day by day just to satisfy the other’s passion for them. Arthur was fond of unicorns in particular and that day Francis had a present for him.  
"Close your eyes."  
"Why?", Arthur asked, still eating.  
"Please…"  
Reluctantly, he accepted and felt the little hands of his friends near his neck, touching softly his hair, his lips close to his eyes, then a happy “Open them!”.  
Arthur saw a little necklace, with a small white unicorn. He widened his eyes, in shock and happiness.  
"For me?"  
Francis rolled his eyes, “Obviously. I gave it to you.”  
Arthur examinated it, “Is it girlish?”  
Francis frowned, he never gave importance to those ideas, “No, it’s for people who like unicorns.”  
The English boy smiled and held the necklace, “Well, I don’t care anyway. I like it. Thank you, frog.”  
For once, Francis didn’t complain about the annoying nickname and just smiled back.  
Arthur seemed thoughtful though and he took a moment before asking, confused, “Do you want a presen too?”  
"I don’t need one."  
"If you want something, I will give it to you."  
Francis bit his lips, nervously. His eyes seemed sad but also brave as he nailed them on Arthur.  
He seemed suddenly so much older, like an adult.  
His mouth moved quickly and firmly.  
"Kiss me."  
Arthur felt frozen.  
He didn’t even manage to blink, because Francis’ look was so scary, dead serious and honest that Arthur didn’t know how to react. It was so confusing and puzzling, like a thunderclap in the clear sunny sky. A bolt from the blue.  
Arthur felt something strange in his chest, like something went in the wrong place, giving him an uncomfortable sensation he didn’t know how to classify nor manage.  
Francis gave a laugh. That tasted and sounded like tears somehow.  
"I was joking, squirrel."  
Francis ate a peach, using the sweet to delete the bitter. Arthur lowered his eyes.  
  


* * *

  
  
Arthur didn’t speak about the kiss on the neck with Francis the day after.  
He didn’t speak with Francis in general.  
When he woke up, one quarter to seven, the sky was leaden and cumbersome, a gloomy wind made him shiver and then Arthur noticed a little constant creak. It was raining.  
The clouds exploded, eventually.  
The scent of rain was everywhere, sweet and fresh.  
Arthur entered in his car and drove to Alfred’s house, he knocked at his white door and waited, taking a childish pleasure in observing the wet grass. Alfred’s eyes were filled with panic when they met, he smiled nervously, combing his hair with the fingers and talking fast.  
Arthur listened silently to his words, nodding sometimes, with a courteous gesture.  
"I think I still have some stuff here.", he finally said.  
Alfred seemed a little hurt, “Yeah”, not like he didn’t want to give them back, but like he noticed those things too, becoming sadder everytime the eyes saw them and asking himself why and reminding what happened and how tasteless everything became.  
But those things still belonged to their place more than to Arthur or to him. Those things occupied a space, a time, held memories.  
Arthur smiled, feeling refreshed by the cold rain falling on them.  
"Do you want to come inside?"  
"No, I’m fine."  
Alfred sighed and then returned inside, put inside a cardbox every thing he thought Arthur could have wanted: photographs, old books, a tie, a tin box of earl grey tea, a little fuchsia box Alfred didn’t dare to open, a change of clothes they always had for any emergency, other books, some CDs.   
When Arthur saw the little box, he put it in the jacket pocket.  
"Are you sure you don’t want to enter?", he asked again.  
"No, I want to return at Francis’ place as soon as possible.", Arthur confessed.  
Alfred let out a choked groan: yeah Francis, again Francis, always Francis.  
The rain got more furious, but Arthur really seemed not to be bothered but the water drenching him.   
"It’s such a shame… - Alfred sighed, looking at the sky, hiding under a little piece of roof - It was such a sunny week, now the weekend is ruined."  
The English man put the cardbox in his car, without glancing at the sky, but just at the ground, again green and alive after the dry suffocating days, and at the landscape, shining under the water, feeling his skin relieved, forgetting the feverish hot weather of the days before.  
"I actually like rain."  
Alfred blinked, not sure if he heard right.  
"I love rain. - Arthur continued - It makes me feel alive."  
The other shrugged his shoulders, feeling uneasy and not anymore like talking. Something in his stomach stung him.  
And he felt abandoned and alone, again, like when they were both in a room without talking.  
And he forgot when he stopped loving Arthur, but he also forgot if once upon a time he really did or not.  
Arthur smiled again, quickly, “I have to go.”  
He entered in the car and lit a cigarette, satisfied.  
"Didn’t you quit it?"  
"I did it for you. - Arthur explained - So, now it’s over."  
Using the truth as revenge: the privilege of ex lovers.  
Alfred chuckled annoyed, “As you please. What is this now? Just wanting to tell me how much I don’t matter anymore?”  
"Or how much you mattered before, depends how you want to see it."  
Arthur closed the car and waved at Alfred, driving away, living him behind and not looking back.  
With one hand, he opened a little plastic bag on the passenger seat and took out from it a peach. He brought it to the mouth and bit it, greedly, happily.  
The scent reminded him of his childhood and the past and the times when everything was good. And everyone was sweet exactly as the peaches.  
Once he arrived near a field - it was not rye, most likely wheat - he parked, exited from the car and crossed it, under the fresh rain. He sat in the middle and took from the pocket of his jacket the little fuchsia box.  
Arthur smiled, looking inside the box, and always smiling wore the small unicorn necklace.  
His neck became so big the necklace barely fit, but it did and Arthur lied on the ground for some moments, remembering those past days and the uncomfortable feeling of when Francis asked him a kiss and how much now he was the one wanting to kiss him.   
He took the mobile from his pocket and called him.  
"Hey, do you remember the unicorn necklace? …no, don’t laugh. Ah, you are are mean. Listen… I am in a field of I don’t know, wheat, not corn anyway, and… no, let me speak. I never forgot what you asked me. - he took a pause, as Francis became speechless, then even Arthur’s voice became hoarse - I won’t cry and I won’t regret it tomorrow."  
He overheard a little chirped laugh and a French swearword.  
Arthur felt again his chest uncomfortable, but this time he knew what to say.  
"Am I too late for that kiss?"


End file.
